I can hear the fluorescent lights and smell the carpet. I am wearing clothes that I bought that morning at a Goodwill. Buy a suit, my counselor had said, when I asked what business casual meant. The clothes feel stiff and they smell like somebody else. There are no magazines and no water cooler, and the only distraction is a dusty snake plant soldiering on in the corner. Bone dry. The receptionist is sitting behind her desk, and with both of us seated we can not see each other, though I can hear her pleasant neutral voice answering calls here and there. I fight, again, the urge to get up and leave.
I hear it before I see it, but as soon as I hear it I know what it is. A weak slow bzzzz, and uneven, non rhythmic bonk. I scan the windows behind me. Dirty Venetian blinds are smashed to one side, and the cloudy glass further dims the view of the dreary parking lot, but far to the left, down by a heating register on the floor, is dusty looking bumble bee. He weaves and drops, rises again, then bonks into the glass and falls. As he rises again, weaving like a drunk, I am suddenly not in the waiting room any longer. I am in the backseat of a car, stretched out sideways atop piles of garbage. The footwells are full of trash, as is the seat, and I perch atop it all, the only way to really fit back there. The rear window of the car is carpeted with a faded to almost nothing blue color, and also covered in trash, most of which is bleached out by the sun. It’s getting hot in the car. We’ve been sitting here awhile and the sun has risen and is now shining down on us. Hard. The windows are open but the heat is building.
Bzzzzz. Thunk. Bzzzzzz. Thunk.
In the rear window is a sickly bumble bee, and it keeps trying to fly through the rear glass, whacking his fuzzy little head, and falling onto the pile of trash. It walks, then tries again, oblivious to the open windows all around, it is single minded about going through that glass. It is doomed. I share in the futility of the bee, and watching it is making me feel desperate. I pull another cigarette out of my pack. But my lighter is gone.
“Chris, got a light?”
He tosses a blue bic over his shoulder from the front seat. My blue bic. He is a rumpled mess and I can smell the sickness on him. Or is that me? The back of Chris’ neck is a nightmare of dirt and zits, a rough looking rash, and filth in the creases of his skin, behind his ears, and greasy clotted hair spilling out of a baseball cap so filthy it’s color of origin is a mystery. Chris has never worked a day in his life but his nails are black rimmed, always, like a mechanic, and his clothes are next level filthy, they could get up and walk on their own. He is staring at an apartment building ahead and to the left. An apartment building that looks like it is about to topple into the ravine behind it. There are three porches, stacked atop each other, and all jammed with trash (not unlike the backseat of the car, but larger items) and each porch is askew, the top porch leaning at an impossible angle. The driver, our friend Todd, went up to the top and in the door and no one has been seen since.
“What the fuck,” Chris mutters.
I light my cigarette. It burns my throat and makes my head ache. Sour, too dry. I exhale a plume of hot, acidic dust. My esophagus feels like a cracked plastic tube.
Bzzzzz. Bonk. Bzzzzz. Bonk. Silence. A dog barks far away. There is no one on the street.
“It’s been a fucking hour,” Chris flicks his butt out the window, it hits the sidewalk with force and explodes in orange sparks. There is an ashtray in the center console up front but it is overflowing with butts and ash.
Has it been an hour though? It feels it, but I know that time is a trickster. Especially when you wait. There is no clock. It could be 15 minutes. I say nothing. My mind starts to crank, around and around. Maybe they don’t have any, maybe they can’t get any, maybe they’re up there getting high, maybe they’re getting high off my bags, tampering with all the bags, maybe the shit is in hand and he’s just running his mouth, maybe there was trouble. It’s pointless to speculate. It’ll come, or it won’t. The bags will be light, or they’ll be good. It doesn’t matter. There is no choice. There is only waiting. I don’t even dare hope. I stare at the bee who is silent and still, sitting on an envelope.
My back aches. There is a deep pain in my hips that oozes into my thighs. My insides feel sandy, and stare at the lit cigarette, pouring filthy smoke into the air, and regret it, but also recognize it as the only thing I have. My stomach is a bag of broken glass. My nose is running now too and I sniff and sniff, sucking the hot boiling smoke into my throat with the snot.
Chris turns and looks at me.
“Look at you atop all that trash. Like a dopesick mermaid beached in the dunes. Jesus, this car is a toilet.”
“Whose car is it?”
“Todd’s old lady.”
Todd who took our cash and disappeared into that leaning tower of dope. “Todd’s old lady” is 19, and is at home with Todd’s kids. Not her kids, Todd’s kids with Melissa. Melissa is in jail. Melissa, famously, doesn’t know about her replacement yet.
“Something is wrong,” Chris is staring at the building, “It’s been way too long.”
Classic Chris. He is sick, and panicking. I track this but feel the panic enter my own blood stream. If I don’t get some dope soon, it’ll get bad. The levels, and layers, and intensities of how bad it can get are known to me. I know them intimately. The knowing can not be undone once you ride days and weeks into the sickness. It is indomitable. The landscape of the pain is imprinted on you. Permanently. I shift around, feeling strange irritating discomfort in my legs. An avalanche of food wrappers slides into the front and covers part of the ashtray.
I stare up at the apartment. I’ve been holding this in my hand since we arrived but I know the guy that lives up there. Have bought from him before. But not recently. It’s been…years. (Been doing this for so many years) And I always went with my friend Burt. He’s Burt’s guy. Chris doesn’t know this guy, he said that earlier. And Todd told us to wait. There are rules for these things. Rules set in place so that as many people as possible get screwed over. Mostly me. Todd has our cash. We just need to wait. It always, always, always takes forever.
Chris has leaned back and stuck his sneakered feet out the window, tucked his chin, is maybe trying to nap. Even his sneakers are absolutely caked in greasy dirt. All this asshole does is sit around doing Heroin all day, where is all this dirt coming from? I’m watching another not up to code slanted porch perched atop an apartment building to our right. A woman is hanging laundry wearing a sleeveless shirt and her arms are pleasingly plump. I feel jangly, like a pile of metal parts, and as the heat builds I can smell myself, my sweat has a tinge of battery acid. The laundry woman is leaning on the railing of her sagging porch now, the tops of her tits out in the sun. She sees our car but her gaze slides over it, smoothly, as she takes in the street.
Bzzzz. Bonk. Bzzzzz. Bonk.
It has been too long. Shit. The thought ruins me. Am I actually going to have to go up there? I feel so depleted. I stare at the building, a shamble of wood and trash. I stare harder, willing Todd to come out. Todd will appear, trot down the rickety stairs, one, two, three, and jog over to the car, a smile on his face. It’ll happen now.
Now.
The door will open…now.
“Maybe I should go up,” I say.
“Dude, yes. Go fucking get him, it’s boiling in here.”
“Really?”
“I think you’re going to have to,” he mutters.
His voice is soft and sleepy. I could strangle him he’s so fucking useless.
I stare up at the building again. My desperate gaze might be more than this structure can bear. He’ll come out now. Right…now. Now.
I swivel and open the door. As I fold myself, and get my feet out, various items tumble out, including an empty diet Dr Pepper that bonks to the pavement and rolls under the car. I stand and try to hike up my pants. My clothes are damp with sweat and feel heavy and gritty on my skin. I rub my face and muss my hair and check my pockets for my smokes and try to pull myself together, all the while hoping Todd will appear before I have to do anything arduous. I feel winded from standing up. I’m not up for this. But I slam the door and walk swiftly towards the building.
“They should be with you soon. Is there something I can get you?”
I look up, remember where I am, and stare at the small lady standing in front of me. She is dressed in a kind of sailer dress, navy and white, and she has little dangling earrings that are in fact anchors. Very tan, lot’s of make-up. When I don’t respond she breaks into a really big smile.
“How about a coffee?” So much warmth in her voice I feel scared.
“Sure, coffee would be great.”
I don’t want it but there’s no way out of it. She disappears. This interview was supposed to be 35 minutes ago. They were running behind. Or maybe they were making him wait. That’s a game played in all kinds of places, even a well lit office in the middle of a workday by ladies dressed as fake sailers.
The porches, all three, are packed with junk, like an actual junk shop, much of it large furniture. Definitely too heavy. The staircases are just as crooked as they looked from the car and they too are scattered with…stuff. On the second landing I see a cat in a flower pot. He closes his eyes slowly as I go past. The gully that this place will one day tumble into is more visible as I go up, and it too is full of trash. I see a shopping cart.
I’ve reached the top. The door is immediately familiar. I look out at the street and see the car, Chris’s black sneakers still poking out. He’s no doubt watching me. I turn back to the door, willing myself to knock, when suddenly it opens. Standing there is not the guy (whose name I can not for the life of me recall), or Todd, but a girl. Two sheets of blond hair frame her face. Her eyes are ice blue and her pupils are pins. She is high. A sudden sort of strange smile smears across her face, and she steps back and holds out her hand, inviting me in. I had thought I’d have to talk my way in here, piss off Todd, possibly run into some badness about it, but I step in and close the door behind me.
Everything is as I remember. Huge sectional taking up most of the space. TV on. Always. Kitchen on the far side of the room inexplicably a disused small engine repair space with no evidence of food. Stove is covered in metal parts and bolts and very old looking tools. No sign of anyone else in this area. I turn around and she is sitting on the couch, staring at the tv. Knife infomercial.
“Is…Todd here?”
She stares the screen, eyes heavy lidded. High as a damn kite. Well there is shit here after all. I go into the hall. Bedroom to the right, bathroom to the left. I seem to remember this place pretty damn well. The bedroom door is open and I see a bed covered in clothing, piles of it. Mountains. There is seemingly nowhere to properly cook or sleep in this dwelling. Not a priority. The bathroom door is closed and I walk over and knock. Bang really. I’ve had enough. Nothing. I lean in and listen. The TV from the other room is the only sound. Are they hiding from me? Fuck it, I open the door.
The bathroom is empty. The fluorescents are on. Black and white tile floor, claw foot tub, toilet, sink all awash in the buzzy light. Fairly clean actually. But absolutely empty. And I remember shooting up in here. With Burt and the fucking guy. But where are they? I turn back to the bedroom and walk in. It’s all bed, but I peer around, open a tiny closet. I go back into the living room and look around. The girl is on the couch and has nodded off, chin to chest.
“Hey!” I sit next to her, grab her shoulder, shake her, “Hey, where are those guys?”
There is no way they left. We had been watching the porch like hawks.
Her head nods like a sunflower but eventually she looks at me. Blankly.
“Hey,” more softly, “what’s your name?”
She smiles, and again it is big and messy and sort of smears her face.
“Jen.”
“Hey Jen,” I put my arm around her, she seems to need the support as she’s sliding down again, “Hey do you know where those guys went?”
She stares at me blankly, no longer smiling, leaning against me.
“Do you live here?” I ask.
Her head falls forward and smacks into her chest. I think it’ll snap back up but it stays down. Her eyes are closed.
“Jen!” I shake her.
But she’s gone. Out.
What the actual fuck. Where was Todd?
She is wearing a cross body bag. Big soft fabric hippy thing, and the bag is open on her other side. Or it’s fallen open. And sitting right in plain view are a bunch of bundles. Little banded packets of ten bags. Of heroin. And there are a bunch of them. Without giving it a moments though I reach across the body of this girl and grab all of them in one swipe. I put them in my pocket and then just sit. Waiting. Did she clock this? She did not. Her head seems to come up, but then drifts back down. Nothing happens. I untangle my arm from her and gently prop her up on the couch. I stand. She fusses a bit, but her eyes don’t open and after a moment she falls on top of her bag, now half laying on the couch. I turn and walk out the door.
I fly down the stairs. At the car I jump into the drivers seat. I begin searching around. Ignition, console, glove box, visor.
“Where’s Todd?”
“He’s not there.”
“What? What’s going on,” Chris sits up now, cranks his legs back in the car.
“Nobody is up there, the place is empty.”
“What?”
“Help me find the key.”
“What?”
I reach down and feel around under the mat, my fingers touch something metal. A key! I hold it aloft like a pearl, and start the car.
“Where is Todd? What the fuck are you doing?”
“They’re gone. I think we got ripped off, Brother. I need to get home.”
“But…what the fuck. Where is Todd?!”
“I don’t know. No one is up there. Listen I got like one bag we can split.”
Chris stares at me, but puts on his seatbelt. I do too. And we drive away.
“Sir?”
The Sailer hands me the coffee. Boiling hot in a thin paper cup, and at that moment another lady comes around the corner. Big blond hair, shiny blue dress, fluorescents shining off her glasses.
“Sorry to keep you waiting! Come right back!”
I gather my coat, and my thin folder with one resume in it. The coffee is a hindrance now, but I’m stuck with it. I follow her around the corner. We make several turns, it all looks the same, and finally enter a closet sized room. Two chairs and a desk. On the desk a phone and a newspaper.
“So tell me why you think you’d be a good fit here at Tremblay Brothers!” Her face like a sun, 100 watts.
Chris had less to say about it than you’d imagine. All he wanted was dope, and I had a feeling he hadn’t given Todd any cash. It was MY cash everyone was riding on. So we stopped at a gas station and I split a bag with him in the bathroom, which I covertly peeled off one of the many bundles I’d just stolen. He didn’t question any of it, and I drove back to his place (Emma’s apartment) and left the car there with the key under the mat and a dead bumble bee in the back window. I jumped in my car and sped home, where I stayed for many, many days. But it didn’t last forever. It never does.
I thought there’d be trouble around Todd’s car, but I never heard a word about it. Confirming that Todd had been ripping me off. I saw him, months later. He didn’t ask about the car and I didn’t ask about my money or how in the fuck he got out of that apartment (I saw him go in). It was just another day. Like so many before. Thousands of days that I spent hustling after drugs. But something did happen. I was downtown waiting outside the pawn shop for someone to come out. There was a poster on a power pole. A missing poster. And it was her. The girl I had robbed. In the photo she was smiling, leaning against a counter in a cheery kitchen, little braids through her hair, her skin looking pink and healthy. Better days. And her smile was genuine, and bright, and she was looking not at the camera but at the person taking the picture. You could tell she was talking, laughing, engaged. It was her. No doubt.
MISSING PERSON, Jennifer Cousins, age 23, 5’4”, 110lbs, blond hair, blue eyes, last seen 8/5. Jennifer was last seen the afternoon of August 5th wearing yoga pants, a t-shirt, and flip flops. Her family is very worried. Any information regarding her whereabouts call Waterville Police Department.
August 5th?
My buddy came out of the pawn shop.
“One fitty,” he spit on the ground.
It was less than I’d hoped, but it was enough. He walked over and looked at the poster.
“You know her?”I asked.
“Nope. Prolly dead.”
I nodded.
The thing was I was somewhat sure I had seen her the 5th of August. Had robbed her on the 5th, in that apartment. I wasn’t positive, but pretty damn sure.
She had been high and nodding off, yeah. But she was alive when I walked out of there. And I’d seen people much worse. She wasn’t dying. Probably. Something must have happened later. Maybe. And it had nothing to do with me. With what I did. Hopefully.
I saw many of the missing posters around town. And one night the local news interviewed her mom, and her mom’s boyfriend.
“She just never would have left her dog. She never would have,” her mom said shaking her head. He mom’s boyfriend sat, arms crossed, silent.
After awhile I stopped hearing about her and I stopped seeing the posters and the Facebook posts. I forgot about her.
“So have you worked sales before?”
“Well, no. But, I think I’d be good at it.”
“Sure,” she nodded, looking down at my sheet. My counselor and I had sweat blood and tears cobbling that thing together. But in her hands it looked like shit. It was nothing. And though her over the top friendliness had not dimmed one bit, I knew it was over. She didn’t like me, and I wasn’t getting this job. She’d likely decided back in the waiting room. All I wanted now was to leave.
“Heather? I’m so sorry to interrupt you but you have a call…” blasting from the phone, some kind of intercom.
Her manic smile slipped a bit.
“I am so sorry but I just need to tale this,” and she slipped out the door before I could say anything. I’d have to wait for her. Even though is was clearly over.
I sat the coffee down, it was still in my damn hand, and I stood. That’s when I saw the cover of the paper. And there she was. I picked it up and unfolded it. It was the same picture of her from the posters, along with a map. The map had an arrow. The headline read: Human remains found in Waterville identified. And below that: Authorities confirm that the human remains discovered in the woods off Franklin Street are in fact those of Jennifer Cousins. Cousins went missing almost three years ago. Police report that at this time they do not suspect foul play. I look at the map again, an aerial picture. Franklin Street. It’s the gully. It’s the gully behind the guy’s apartment. You can see his building in the shot. As if someone literally threw her off the porch. Three years. She would have been what, a skeleton? No foul play? Hogwash. She didn’t crawl down into that gully and OD. She got dumped back there.
“I am so sorry about that,” pure fake friendly stood in the door, “ Thank you so much for coming in today. We”ll be in touch.” She stuck out her hand.
I was standing with the paper in my hand, so I dropped it onto the desk and shook. She ushered me out, leading me back to the waiting room, where two more beige people in business casual sat. I walked over to the dying snake plant and leaned down to the heating register. He was just sitting there. The fuzzy bee. I scooped him up in cupped hands. Everyone in the room was watching me. I walked out the door and opened my hands, he immediately flew off into the bleak parking lot. Not a flower in sight.
I am oddly heartbroken. And truth be told I feel something else too. I’m jealous of Jen. To lay in the woods and let the immense sky spin above, and the ground freeze and thaw, and the snow and rain fall into your face, and to be absolutely still and unaffected by it all. She pulled off an amazing trick, an escape I’d longed for much of my life. No one would frame it that way, I know. No one would look at her, dead, her remains laying in the woods, for years; and me, clean now, sober, getting my life “on track”, and ever think I’d feel jealous of her. But there it was. The truth. That thing people always claim they want. I owed Jen an amends. But it was too late.
I start the car and head for the highway. It will be a long drive home.
[Image Credit : Photo by Rostislav Uzunov on Unsplash]
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Eryne Thibeau
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- Bumble Bee - August 4, 2026
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